


Overwatch

by Laura Kaye (laurakaye)



Series: Warrior of Care [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Avengers (2012), Badass SHIELD Agents, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Cuddling & Snuggling, Everything is sadness without Natasha, Feels, Fix-It, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, POV Natasha Romanov, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Phil Coulson, Protectiveness, Strike Team Delta, Team Feels, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-05
Updated: 2013-12-05
Packaged: 2018-01-03 12:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurakaye/pseuds/Laura%20Kaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later, after shawarma, Natasha lets herself think that perhaps the worst is past.</p>
<p>She really should know better by now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overwatch

**Author's Note:**

> One million thanks to Beth H for beta-ing and encouragement!
> 
> This story takes place immediately after the Avengers movie. It it not compliant with Agents of SHIELD.

Later, after shawarma, after Thor takes Loki away and the reconstruction efforts have begun, after she has told Clint the news and sat silent watch over him as he crumples beneath it, Natasha lets herself think that perhaps the worst is past. 

She really should know better by now.

It starts with a phone call in the middle of the afternoon, from one of the few numbers she’ll always answer; Clint. His voice is low and rough.

“You need to come and get me, Tasha,” he says, and she goes very still. “I’m… compromised.”

If Natasha were a normal person, she thinks, this would be the thing that breaks her; the cruelty of it, coming after they all think they’re done with the losses. The way his voice scrapes through his throat. But she is not a normal person, and she keeps him on the phone the whole way to his apartment, pulls promises out of his disjointed mumbles, and all she says is “stay there, Clint,” over and over. “Stay there, I’m coming to get you.”

He looks terrible, when she finally reaches him, unbathed and unshaven, flinching away from the light.

“Talk to me,” she says, and they both wince.

“Something’s wrong with me,” he whispers. “I don’t know if it’s leftovers from Loki, or the Tesseract—it talked, you know? But I just…” 

“Clint.” Her voice is as soft as his, but intense. “Do you feel like you’re being controlled?” She shifts a little, ready to strike if needed. 

“No, not like before. It doesn’t feel the same, it’s not making me do things. But it’s not… I haven’t felt well. Thought I was getting sick, can’t eat, can’t sleep. Twitchy. But I’ve started…” he breaks off, swallowing heavily. Impossibly, she thinks, he goes paler.

She pulls herself forcefully into mission mode, making her voice firm, pushing aside her personal worry, how seeing him like this makes her ache. “We’ll take care of it. Clint. Whatever it is, we will fix it, but you have to tell me.”

“I’m hallucinating.” His voice is barely there. 

“Auditory? Visual?”

“Both.”

“What do you see? What do you hear?”

“Just… random shit. Conversations, who won the Knicks game, who’s late for their shift again. The visual ones are even worse, just… specks, mostly. Like floaters but not.”

“Those don’t sound like Loki.” 

“They don’t feel like him either. I just— Nat, what if he broke me?” His eyes are bloodshot, his pupils dilated. “What if whatever he did is making me go nuts?” 

“Don’t think like that. Whatever it is, Clint, we’ll figure it out and we’ll fix it.” 

“You can’t let it happen again. I can’t— you can’t let me hurt anyone else. Tasha, promise me.”

She meets his frantic gaze, holds it; reaches out, clasps his hand. “I promise.”

He clings to her all the way to Medical, through intake, until he has to go in for scans and she has to stay behind. Maybe, she thinks, maybe she’s clinging to him, too.

* * *

SHIELD has approximately 27 different types of brain scanners, two neurologists, and five full-time psychiatrists specializing in deprogramming, brainwashing, post-abduction trauma, and/or PTSD. Clint goes through all of them over the course of a week, without any conclusive results. They’re pretty sure he doesn’t have late-onset schizophrenia, or bipolar disorder, or any other major mental illness; as far as they can tell, he doesn’t have any subconsciously implanted suggestions or other forms of brainwashing; there aren’t any implants in his brain or body (Loki having somehow gotten rid of the SHIELD sub-cu and Clint not having gone on any official missions since that would have required getting a new one). They’d thought they were getting somewhere when they contacted Erik Selvig’s SHIELD rehab team, but although Selvig has gotten decidedly odder since his experience, he isn’t having the same sorts of symptoms as Clint.

Clint is suffering from post-traumatic stress and survivor’s guilt, but they don’t think that completely explains his symptoms. He’s also exhibiting physical markers of stress; whenever he burns through the sedatives he’s got the cortisol, adrenaline, and blood pressure of a man fighting for his life. The best that the doctors can come up with is a half-baked theory about Loki’s staff and/or the Tesseract and/or Loki himself causing delayed residual magic-induced side effects. Natasha knows all this, because she’s still Clint’s secondary medical proxy, as he is hers.

Coulson was the primary proxy for them both, the one person at SHIELD they both trusted in their greatest vulnerability. She tries not to think about it, but at times like this, sitting next to Clint on a hospital bed, clutching his hand (already grown worrisomely thinner; Clint can barely eat now), all Natasha wants in the world is for their handler to come through the door and fix things somehow. 

“So what will you investigate next?” she asks, voice flat.

“Agent Romanoff, I’m afraid we’ve pursued all the avenues we have available,” Dr. Jameson says. “I’m very sorry, but—”

“Nonsense,” she says sharply. “We have consultants, surely? Dr. Banner studied the staff, Dr. Selvig knows the cube, Dr. Foster studied Thor’s travel patterns and has discussed Asgardian magic with him; even Mr. Stark may have something to offer.” 

“None of them have medical—”

“And we don’t know that this issue is medical in nature,” Natasha snaps. “I don’t care what sort of territorial issue you’re having. I want every available resource brought in on this; the Director will authorize the expenditure.” Not for Clint, perhaps, though Fury was loyal to his men, but Fury would want to find a cure so as to prepare them for the next time they faced such a thing.

There was always a next time.

Jameson wilts. “I’ll start making calls.”

“I will explore some of my… less orthodox channels for anything that might help,” she says.

She and Clint sit in silence as the doctor leaves.

“Do you really think you’re going to find a magic-mind-curse removal expert, Tasha?” Clint rarely speaks above a whisper, now. Loud noises make his blood pressure spike.

“I’ve found stranger things.” She squeezes his hand, just a little, not too tight. “There are many hidden corners of the world, full of secrets.”

He sighs, and leans gingerly into her side. “I know you have to go but…”

“It’s difficult," she agrees. "But there are places only I can search.”

He turns his face into her shoulder. “I miss him.”

“It was easier when there were three of us. One to fight and one to guard.” She curves her arm around his shoulders, just lightly, not resting on him with all her weight. “Perhaps I'll talk to Stark and Banner before I go. They can keep you company.”

He huffs a little breath; in another time it might have been a laugh. “Or keep me entertained with the crazy scientist floor show.”

She shrugs. “Whatever they’re good for.”

He breathes deep. Smelling her, maybe; he does that sometimes, when he needs to settle. “Watch yourself out there.”

“I will.”

He doesn’t ask any further promises, and she wouldn’t give them if he had; it’s never been their way. The things they have to say to each other have all been said, in whispers and rescues and bullets in a thousand out-of-the-way corners of the world.

One of Coulson’s hard and fast rules for Strike Team Delta had been that nobody went on serious missions alone. Small things, sure, but anything Level Five or over required at least two of them. Things are changing, and it’s too soon to know for better or worse, but Natasha will do her damnedest to make sure this is the last time that rule is broken.

(The first time had been on the carrier. She knew it was Loki’s fault, Loki’s plan, but if she could raise Coulson’s ghost he would hear her displeasure. He didn’t get to break the rules either.)

* * *

 It would be melodramatic and incorrect to say that the next three weeks, working alone in sporadic contact with SHIELD, are the most difficult of her life. There have been many worse.  They are still bad, though, and Jameson’s updates don’t help. Clint is declining steadily, his symptoms increasing in number and severity, and very few of the treatments they’ve tried have done much good.

She burns through favors quickly, recklessly, chasing down anyone who is even rumored to dabble in mind control or psychotropics or neurotoxins of any kind. She gathers a fair number of leads for ongoing investigations, but she doesn’t think any of them sound like they’ll help Clint, though she sends copies to Jameson all the same, in case.

When she runs out of places to look, she goes home. She knows Clint is worse, but it still falls like a blow when she’s escorted into the isolation ward. Everything is muffled or padded, no hard edges or bright lights or sharp corners. Clint’s in a hospital gown, and his skin is reddened and peeling around a medication patch on his upper arm. He’s staring at the floor in the corner of the room.

She enters as softly as she can, but it seems to jar him from his reverie.

“Tash?” He looks up, but seems to have trouble focusing. She wonders if it’s his condition or the meds. “You here?” 

“Yeah, Clint, I’m here.”

“Can’t be sure all the time.” He’s quiet, his voice almost dreamy. “Things I see… aren’t always there.”

“What kind of things?”

A rusty laugh. “All kinds. Bugs. Dust. Animals. Badger badger badger badger…”

_“Clint.”_

“Not a snake, though. S’a bird. Think he likes me but I can’t touch him.”

She sits on the floor beside him, aching. “You can touch me.”

He shakes his head. “Hurts.”

She puts her hand next to his, palm up. “I won’t hurt you.”

He reaches out, slowly, tense. His fingers skitter over hers, then she can see him brace himself and grab hold. His hand is rough and cold. She resolves to make them turn the temperature up on her way out.

“How are you feeling?”

He rolls his eyes, a little more himself for a moment. “How do you think? Like shit.”

“Hardly surprising, you’ve been on and off more drugs than Keith Richards in the last month. I’m beginning to think Jameson just throws darts at the pharmacy shelf. I think we need to have a talk.” 

Clint doesn’t answer. He’s looking in the corner again. She squeezes his hand, and he startles, then squeezes back.

“What do you see over there?”

“Fox. I think she’s yours,” A quick, longing glance. “You’ve got the same color hair. Pretty. I could get lost.”

_No_. “Stay here.”

“I’m trying.” His eyes are starting to tear up. Or maybe he’s crying. The doctors say both happen a lot now. She hates them, their platitudes and uselessness. 

“Am I hurting you?”

“Everything hurts. Better with you than alone.”

“I won’t give up, Clint. Everywhere I go, I’m looking. Stark and Banner and Foster won’t give up either. They’re doing everything they can to contact Asgard. Maybe one of Thor’s people will know how to fix it.” 

“Selvig?”

“He’s still… having trouble.”

“Does he still hear that thing? You can’t trust the things it says, tell him not to trust it.”

“I’ve told him.”

“Good.” He relaxes a little, leaning more heavily into her. “Don’t want him to end up like me.”

“This isn’t over, Clint,” she says, as firm as she can get a whisper to sound. “We’re going to fix it.”

“Not your fault if you can’t,” he murmurs, sliding towards sleep. “Just my shit luck.” 

“I don’t believe in luck,” she says, but he doesn’t hear her, already unconscious; exhaustion or sedatives, it’s hard for her to tell. She sits with him a long time before she finds some empty guest quarters to get what sleep she can manage.

They call her in at 0600 the next morning, and she meets Jameson in the hallway outside the isolation ward so they can talk about Clint’s _atypical catatonia_. He’s been having intermittent episodes, which they had at first feared were seizures but had proved not to be, for more than a week, but this is the first one to last so long, and it had been ugly. He’d started clawing at his own skin; they’d restrained him, and he’d started screaming. It had almost been a relief when he’d gone quiet, staring off into nothing. After an hour, they’d called her in. They’ve got security on the door, now; Martinez, Natasha notes absently, Level Six, hand-to-hand specialist; she’d been in one of Natasha’s workshops the previous year.

There’s a drug Jameson wants to try, but he isn’t doing well at convincing her that it’ll work any better than any of the others have. He’s sputtering about there not being any best practices for treating Norse-god-inflicted brain disorders when he cuts himself off and goes a little pale.

Natasha is familiar with that expression.

“Good morning, Director,” she says, turning around to meet Fury’s eye.

“Agent Romanoff,” says Fury, coming to stand beside her at the two-way observation window into Clint’s room. “Welcome back.” They watch Clint in silence for a moment. Even from here, she can see the tension in his body; wherever he’s gone, it isn’t a peaceful place.

“Loki got better than he deserves,” he says at last.

“We should have let Clint shoot him,” she agrees. 

“Thor might have become a problem.”

“I’m sure Thor could be convinced.” She watches Fury’s reflection in the glass. “Say what you’ve come to say, Director.”

He nods. “You know we need you back in the field.”

She sets her jaw. “Without my team.”

“You have a new team now, or did I mistake what I saw on the streets of Manhattan?”

“Don’t be insulting.”

He sighs. “You think this is what I want, Agent? Trust me, this is not the way things were supposed to go.” He turns to face her fully. “I’d like you to start working with Captain Rogers upon his return.”

She laughs a little, a dry, humorless thing. “The star-spangled man and the Black Widow? Our skills aren’t exactly complementary.”

“I think they can be,” Fury says. “Given time.”

“And what about Clint?” she demands. “Will you just leave him to rot here, at the mercy of this idiot?” she jerks her head at Jameson, who has been edging toward the door, and he puffs up, affronted.

“I’m working with a completely unknown syndrome!” he begins. “I would challenge any—”

He’s cut off by a piercing tone; Fury’s phone, the urgent ring. The one he’ll always answer.

“Excuse me for a moment, Agents,” Fury says, and answers, stepping a short distance away. Jameson tries to pretend he isn’t listening; Natasha doesn’t bother. 

“This had better be good,” Fury greets his caller. 

Natasha can hear the faint buzz of a voice on the other end of the line; it’s a man, but that’s all she can tell. Whatever he’s saying, Fury doesn’t seem to like it. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Agent,” he snaps into the phone, “but there is still such a thing as need to know…no, you did NOT need to know. This situation is no longer your concern. It’s being handled. No— you know who. Don’t give me that.” 

Another pause, and Fury’s body language is getting tighter. “What, you think you know better than the scientists?” he demands. “When did you go back to school for your genius degree? I don’t care. You have your assignment— well if that’s how you feel, we can argue about it the next time you see me.”

The door swings open, banging heavily against the stop as Phil Coulson, alive and pissed, slams through. “I intend to,” Coulson says, hanging up the phone with a viscious jab. At any other time, Natasha would be greatly entertained by the look on Fury’s face, but all she can do is stare. 

Coulson shoves past Fury to look through the window at Clint. He’s silent for a moment, then starts cursing viciously in Hungarian under his breath. It’s his favorite language to curse in, and is nearly always followed by what Clint would call “vintage Coulson badassery.” She can hardly think straight just now, frozen by a hot swirl of betrayal and anger, because Fury has obviously lied to them all and Coulson has let him, has _left them_ , which she had grown to believe he would never do voluntarily, and that broken trust is bitter in her throat.

And yet. Despite all that, a tiny corner of her is flooded with relief, because he is here now and he will fix things.

Coulson whirls, moving quick and sharp like she’s only seen him do in combat, and gets up in Fury’s face. “One thing, Marcus,” he hisses, and Natasha blinks, because it’s almost more surprising to see Coulson being disrespectful to the Director than to see him alive. “One fucking thing I asked in return for going along with this ridiculous, damaging _melodrama_ of yours, and that was your word that you would look after my team. And that if something came up that couldn’t be handled you would _call me back in_ , cover be damned.”

“And I _would_ have if there were anything you could possibly do!” Fury retorts, unbending. “What, did your magical mystery tour of the cardiac surgery ward make you some kind of expert in mind control? Am I supposed to waste _two_ of my top agents waiting around in the isolation ward for a miracle cure that might never happen?” 

“Which would be a relevant argument _if Clint were under mind control!”_ Coulson snaps his fingers at Jameson. “You’ve been in charge of Agent Barton’s treatment since his admission, correct?”

Jameson looks like he wants to address the mind control issue, but wisely refrains. “Yes, sir.”

“So tell me, doctor,” Coulson continues, his voice cool and dangerous, “what were the results of Agent Barton’s evaluation for GSH? I didn’t see them in his file.”

Natasha can see the color drain from Jameson’s face, and starts mentally running through the list of tests they'd done on Clint. If they had missed that... 

Fury curses. “Are you telling me you had SHIELD’s best sniper in your office complaining about hearing voices and you _didn’t_ test him for GSH?” 

“He said he— he said he was experiencing complications from the mind-control incident!”

“He thought it was Loki,” Natasha says. “We all did.”

“Last I checked,” Coulson says, “Agent Barton is not a neurologist, while you, ostensibly, are. I have the feeling an audit of this unit’s SOP adherence is in order.”

“Sir!” Jameson appeals to Fury. “You can’t let him—”

“I think you’ll find it’s not a good idea right now to tell me what I can and cannot do,” Fury cuts him off, and Jameson has the sense to give in. Fury turns to Coulson.

“You really think it’s GSH?”

“The symptoms fit. And he fits the profile.”

Fury nods. “They should have tested for it during intake. There’ll be an inquiry.” It’s an apology.

“You should have called me,” Coulson replies, implacable. 

“You know why I couldn’t.”

“I know. But I don’t care anymore.”

They hold each other’s eyes for a long moment, then Fury lets out a gusty sigh. “Do what you have to, Coulson,” he says at last, “then I’ll see you in my office.”

Coulson nods, gaze steady. “Yes, sir.”

“And Coulson? For fuck’s sake _try_ not to let too many people see you on the way.” Without waiting for a reply, he leaves, heavy footsteps ringing in the silence he left behind.

“Um, sir? Sirs?” Agent Martinez says after a moment, eyes darting between the doctor and Coulson. “I’m sorry, but— are you saying that Agent Barton’s… that it isn’t because of Loki or the tesseract? He was… what, poisoned? What’s GSH?”

“Generalized sensory hypersensitivity,” Jameson says, still looking shocked. “It—”

“Sniper stares,” Natasha interrupts. “He’s saying Clint has the sniper stares. Are you sure?” she demands, and do what she might there’s a thin thread of pleading underneath her tone that she knows Coulson hears. “I’ve never seen it actually happen, I thought it was something they threatened people with if they didn't follow field protocols.”

“The better the sniper, the more likely GSH is to manifest under stress,” Coulson says. The corners of his mouth are tight, his eyes hard. His body is tense, weight shifted, unconsciously preparing to fight. It would be a lie to say she’s never seen him this angry, but this is as angry as she’s ever seen him.

For the first time in weeks, she readjusts her outcome projections to allow a possibility of hope. “And Clint is very, very good." 

“The best I’ve ever known.” He turns to Jameson, a wild light in his eyes. “Are you at least familiar with the standard GSH recovery kit?”

“Yes, sir,” the doctor says, cowed.

“Then get hold of one and bring it in. You,” he turns to Martinez, “turn those lights down, disconnect the alarms, and let me in." 

“Yes, sir.”

He looks at Natasha. “I know there’s a lot we need to talk about,” he says. “I need you to put that on hold until we’ve resolved this situation.”

She nods.

“Come on then,” he says, pushing open the heavy door. A puff of air rushes past them as the seals disengage. “He’ll need us both.”

Up close, Clint looks even worse. She can see the marks on him, bruises under the restraints, scabbed-over streaks on his arms and face, blood under his fingernails. Coulson lets out a shaky sigh, and when she looks over she can see him forcing his anger down, slowing his breath. When he speaks, it’s low and calm and steady, the voice that anchored the other end of their comms for years and always brought them home.

“Stand down, Barton,” he murmurs. “Tasha and I are here. We’ve got your back. You’re safe now, but we need a sitrep, OK? I need you to pull it back here." 

The door opens; it’s Jameson with a small cart. Natasha takes it and wheels it over to the bed, shooing him back out with a jerk of her head. Coulson nods in approval, then picks up what looks like a silk handkerchief and dips the corner in a bowl of water.

“I’m going to wipe your face a little,” he says to Clint. “The water’s lukewarm, but tell me if it hurts.” He moves slowly, his hands steady and gentle, as he wipes tear tracks and crusted blood off Clint’s cheek, then dries it with the other end of the handkerchief. 

“Better? I hope so. We’re going to undo the restraints, now. I’ll do the left, Tasha will do the right.” She moves to obey, easing the cuffs apart as gently as she can, keeping a sharp eye on Coulson.

“Tasha’s going to hold your right hand, now,” he says, and nods at her a little when she does so. “Just hold it loosely and rub it a little, so you can feel she’s there.” 

She knows an instruction when she hears one, and she takes Clint’s roughened hand in both of hers, stroking lightly over the back of it with her thumbs as she watches. Narrating all the while, Coulson dips his finger in dishes of sugar water and salt water and brushes them over Clint’s dry lips; he takes scraps of velvet and linen and leather and corduroy and brushes them over Clint’s fingers; he holds colored cards in front of his staring eyes; he opens tiny vials of vanilla and mint oil and rosewater and waves them under Clint’s nose; he takes Clint’s hand and places it on his neck, over the carotid pulse.

Clint’s fingers twitch. 

“That’s right, that’s it, Clint, come back to— come back,” Coulson says, and there’s a tremor in his hand where he’s still holding Clint’s against his throat. “We’re here, you’re safe, you can come back now.”

Clint gasps, then shivers all over, his hands clenching, eyes squeezing shut.

“Yes, Clint, that’s good, that’s so good,” Coulson says, rubbing up and down Clint’s arm with his free hand. “There’s no threat here, you’re safe, you’re in Medical, it’s just me and you and Tasha.”

Clint’s eyelids flutter open, and he looks from one to the other of them, bewildered, his fingers flexing in hers. He tries to say something, coughs, then tries again. 

“Delta tango?” It’s a field code, asking for confirmation of status.

“Echo charlie,” she says, giving her personalized all-clear at the same time that Coulson gives his “Whiskey bravo.”

“It’s real, Clint,” she says. “I promise, we’re real.” Next to her, Coulson bites off some kind of noise, but for now her attention’s all on Clint. 

“Up,” he says, and she and Coulson help him sit. He pulls his right hand out of her hold and raises it to her cheek, runs it gently through her hair, then lets it drift down to her neck, a mirror of the way he’s still got his left hand cupped over Coulson’s pulse.

“You said you’d fix it,” he tells her, and there’s something broken open in his face. “Tash, I didn’t know you meant you’d fix _everything_ ,” and then he stops and shakes his head. He keeps flicking glances as Coulson and then looking away again, like he’s afraid Coulson will disappear if he looks too hard. “How’d you even— I thought that—” he breaks off, looking bewildered. “ _Phil,_ ” he finally says, helpless. His barriers are gone, worn away, she thinks, by the weeks of drugs and pain and confusion, and she wonders if even now he’s not quite sure they’re real. “Phil, I can’t— you’re really here?”

Coulson looks like he’s been punched, and she is fiercely, spitefully glad. “I’m really here,” he says. “I promise, I’m really here.”

Clint lets out a long, shuddering sigh and just kind of sags forward. They both move to catch him, and end up in a sort of awkward three-way huddle, Clint’s hands still on their pulses and his forehead resting against the place where Coulson’s suit-clad shoulder is jammed against hers. He rolls his head back and forth, snuffling— no, she thinks, he’s _smelling_ them, and it should probably be unsettling but it’s not.

“I’m sorry,” Coulson whispers. “I’m so sorry. I never wanted—”

“Later,” she interrupts him. “We’ll do that later.” He cranes his head around to meet her eyes and nods, once. His face is set, his eyes resolute. She knows he won’t try to weasel out of it, but now is not the time. 

She closes her eyes, and lets herself hope.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So a while back I was talking to Beth about how much I loved Sentinel fusion AUs (since Sentinel was my first slash fandom and they make me feel nostalgic) but I always was a little puzzled by ones where Blair isn't present but everyone used his "Sentinel" and "Guide" nomenclature.
> 
> "I'm tempted to just write a Sentinel fusion AU where nobody ever uses the word 'Sentinel' and see if I can make it work," I said.
> 
> "You totally should!" Beth said. "I would read it!" 
> 
> ...so here we are. (the working title of this story was "Sentinel Without Sentinel.") Please feel free to use GSH if you want to try to write your own Sentinel Without Sentinel story!


End file.
